


let it shine under the morning star

by wolfhalls



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fingerfucking, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Rogue One, Sharing a Bed, all that good stuff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfhalls/pseuds/wolfhalls
Summary: Once, Baze Malbus was a bookish young boy who had no interest in, well, anyone. Then Chirrut turned up, and the world as he knew it promptly turned on its head.(or: Baze and Chirrut didn't have the best of starts. it's what happens afterwards that that counts though, isn't it?)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veranda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veranda/gifts).



> my prompt was 'enemies to lovers' and i hope i've delivered. this is the longest one-shot i've ever written, and i did love every moment of it. well, most of it. @veranda, i really hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> title comes from [i am the antichrist to you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kZmhFgBNuU) by kishi bashi, aka the most lovely song i've heard in years.

_And did you get what_

_you wanted from this life, even so?_

_I did._

_And what did you want?_

_To call myself beloved, to_

_feel myself_

_Beloved on the earth._

Late Fragment, Raymond Carver

****

 

When asked about it years later, Baze Malbus can pinpoint the moment his life changed forever. It's when a young, reed-thin boy with dark hair is dragged into the temple courtyard. He's near unconcious, beaten and bloody. He's able to gasp out his name – _Chirrut –_ before passing out. It's the first day of summer, and the courtyard is bathed in light. Baze is watching all of this unfold from behind a pillar, knowing that he should go to help. He stays where he is though, not wanting to get drawn into Elder Draxi's latest scheme.

Of course, Chirrut had needed no introduction. He's pretty well known in the Holy Quarter of NiJedha. He can either be found brawling in the marketplace, trying to con one of the traders out of some food, or begging for coins from passing pilgrims. Occasionally, you'll be able to find him stirring up tensions in one of the political protests outside the parliament buildings, which usually results in him being patched up by one of the temple medics before the whole sorry cycle repeats itself once more.

To put it bluntly, Chirrut is a troublemaker. Draxi, however, seems to think otherwise.

At the age of thirty-one, Draxi has recently become the youngest ever elder in the history of the Guardians of the Whills. She's been at the temple since she was a newborn though, left on the steps in a violent sandstorm. Her survival was a miracle, and she's since passed every test put to her, leaping ahead of every single one of her peers, and then the initiates older than her too. Now, with new-found authority and little else to prove, she's decided that she's going to reform one of the city's most notorious miscreants. The reason why? Chirrut, apparently, has been blessed by the Force.

Baze, like every other person on this dusty little moon, has dreamed of the Force, of the Jedi, of the beautiful weapons they wield that exist because of the crystals that grow below the ground in this temple. When he was a little boy, he dreamed of the Force reaching out to him, a warm golden light that would settle down into some deep part of him and finally grant him happiness. Everyone knows that you are born Force-sensitive though. It can't be bought, wished for or found. 

So it doesn't seem fair that Baze, a bookish, dedicated initiate here at the temple, should be passed over while Chirrut, a scrawny, argumentative little upstart, should be so blessed.

Life though, Baze Malbus has learned, is not fair. So he sits behind the pillar, and watches Draxi and her cohort of guardians carry Chirrut across the courtyard.

Baze manages to steer clear of their newest recruit for all of six hours before Draxi finds him in the library.

“Baze,” she calls, her normally calm voice now strident. Baze holds his breath. One, two, thr- “Ah! Got you.”

“Hello,” Baze says, in a last ditch attempt at obliviousness. “Is everything alright?”

Draxi has this look she reserves for particularly naughty children, or particularly tiresome pilgrims. Baze isn't often at the receiving end of it, but he finds himself being stared down now. “Get down to the infirmary and welcome your new brother.”

Baze isn't a good actor, but he tries to act surprised. “A new initiate?!” he says, as if Draxi hasn't talked about Chirrut and his gifts for weeks. “When did this happen?”

Draxi snarls. “I saw your head peeking around that pillar Baze, don't play me for a fool. Now, get up and come with me.”

Admitting defeat, Baze does just that.

The walk to the infirmary from the library takes you from one end of the temple grounds to the other, but it's still not long enough for Baze's liking. He's not scared or Chirrut, nor is he particularly interested in him either. As far as he's concerned, someone who picks fights in the streets for fun isn't a worthy member of their order, one of the oldest and most esteemed in the Jedha system.

Baze does not trust easily. He hasn't allowed himself to do so for many years now, and intends to keep it that way.

Chirrut is sitting cross legged on a bed when Baze enters the infirmary. He's sporting a black eye and a bandage around one arm, but seems otherwise unperturbed. He opens his eyes at the sound of their footsteps and-

Oh.

Baze hasn't seen Chirrut in person for some time, but the last time he had, his eyes had been brown. Now though, they're blue, obscured by cataracts – and judging by the way they scour the room aimlessly, sightless. After a moment, they settle where Baze and Draxi are stood, and then he smiles. That hasn't changed. It's the look of someone who's ready for trouble.

“Chirrut,” Draxi says. “I've bought someone to meet you.”

“Ah,” Chirrut says, eyes cast upwards now. “The famous Baze.” The intonation is clear – he thinks Baze unworthy of his time.

“Chirrut,” Baze says curtly, and the other boy starts. His unseeing eyes swivel towards Baze and settle on him with unnerving accuracy. Every muscle, bone, nerve ending in Baze's body screams at him to step backwards.

“ _Baze_?!” he says, sounding surprised. Draxi looks confused, and Baze suspects that if he could see his own face, it'd look the same.

“Chirrut?” Draxi says, her voice careful. “Are you alright?”

Chirrut nods slowly, as if trying to shake himself out of a daze. After a couple of seconds, he surfaces. “Yes,” he says. “It's just- Baze? Have we met before?”

“No,” Baze replies. He's known of Chirrut for a few years now, but they've never spoken. “You must be getting me confused with someone else.”

Chirrut looks as if he's going to protest for a moment, but then stops himself. He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. “Of course, of course. I'm getting you confused with someone else.” He pats the bed. “Sorry, do you mind if I sleep? It's been a long day.”

“Oh, of course!” Draxi says. “I'll come back tomorrow morning, we can talk properly then.”

“Tomorrow then.” Chirrut yawns, a hand over his mouth for emphasis.

“Sleep well Chirrut,” Draxi says. When Baze doesn't echo her sentiments, she nudges him in the ribs.

“Good night Chirrut.” Baze says. He's pretty sure that Draxi's glare is burning a large hole in the side of his face.

“I suspect we'll run into each other again before too long,” Chirrut replies.

Baze doesn't respond to that. Draxi has a strange look on her face, and he doesn't question it. When she's in one of these moods, it's best not to.

-

“I can't _bear_ him,” Baze says. He's trying to peel a raballa, and it keeps slipping through his fingers. Chirrut doing cartwheels with some of the younger initiates just across the courtyard is just adding to his irritation.

Broov, a tall, dark-skinned boy who is a year younger than Baze, snorts. “You're jealous,” he says, skinning his own raballa with ease.

“Why would I be jealous of that clown?”

“Because he can fight ten men by himself, he can charm his way out of trouble, and he can pick a lock quicker than you can peel that damn raballa.” Baze grunts, and Broov laughs. “See! You know I'm right, so you're not answering.”

“I just didn't think it was worth a response.”

“ _Right_ ,” Broov says, popping a piece of the fruit into his mouth. “So you don't think that any of that is impressive, despite him being half your size and blind?”

“Him being blind has nothing to do with him being so full of himself, don't be an ass.” He finally prises the skin off of his raballa, his hands slick with juice. “Aha!” He licks his fingers, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue for a moment.

“I didn't say that it was,” Broov says, helping himself to another fruit from the basket in front of them. Baze looks at him sternly, and he laughs. “Okay, okay! I know that you'd never stoop as low as to mock him for that.” He pauses for a moment. “Still, I think he's nice enough. Handsome too.”

Baze looks back over at Chirrut, who is now ruffling a young boy's hair. He's smiling, a genuine one this time – not like the one he'd offered Baze the other evening.

“He's not hideous,” says Baze.

Broov rolls his eyes. “High praise indeed, brother. That silver tongue of yours, it's just incredible!”

Baze throws his discarded rabella skin at Broov, and he shrieks. This makes Chirrut turn towards them, and the little boy he's standing with laughs and points. Chirrut nods as if he's listening to Elder Xv reading the morning scriptures. Complete disinterest. Baze scowls, which sets Broov off laughing again.

“What now?!” Baze asks irritably.

“Nothing, nothing,” Broov replies, wiping his eyes. “It's just...why does he bother you so much?”

“He's a brat,” Baze says. “Always looking for trouble. But he's _so handsome,_ right? So what does that matter?”

Broov slaps Baze's knee. “He is handsome, you stroppy child. Accept the wisdom of your elders.”

“You're younger than me!”

“Draxi thinks he's handsome.”

“She does not. She thinks that he's gifted. That's different.”

Broov sticks out his bottom lip, knowing that he's been defeated on that one. “Still. I think he's good looking, and you're not going to change my mind.”

“Is he as beautiful as Lina from the dumpling shop?” Baze asks him, knowing that this a surefire way of derailing the conversation for half an hour at least.

Broov, as Baze predicted, takes on the look of someone suitably lovesick. “I went to see her the other day Baze, and oh Force, she is so-”

As Broov continues, Baze looks back over at Chirrut. He's sitting on his own now, facing them across the courtyard. Baze wonders if he's been listening.

He doesn't care anyway. Let the fool hear.

-

Chirrut is initiated four days later. Baze is there – he couldn't really not be. He passes the knife that is used to shave Chirrut's hair off. He leans back when the blade is pressed to his scalp, and Baze watches the long line of his throat, the arrogant tilt of his chin. The hair that curls at the nape of Chirrut's neck falls to the floor, and Baze stares at that instead. Black against pale blue tiles, as incongruous as Chirrut himself.

Baze doesn't listen to Chirrut repeating the vows from a book that is held out in front of him, his hands tracing the little bumps on the paper. He looks at Chirrut's curling lock of hair on the floor, and keeps his hands clasped in front of him. A breath in, a breath out. Like all things that have made Baze feel unsettled, this will pass. A lot of the initiates don't stick around anyway. Turns out religious servitude isn't for everyone. Maybe Chirrut will soon discover that this isn't the path for him.

Deep down, Baze doubts it.

A voice brings him out of his reverie, and his head snaps up towards it. It's Draxi, and she is holding her hand out, sleeve just riding up to bare the tattoos that loop around her forearm. “Baze,” she repeats. “The robes.”

Baze must have been lost in his thoughts for quite some time, because they're nearly at the end of the ceremony. He fumbles for a moment at the robes folded at his feet, and feels his cheeks flush. _Always stuck in your own head,_ his aunt had told him when he was small. He gathers the robes up in his arms and walks to Draxi. He places them at her feet. “From one to another,” she says, looking from him to Chirrut. “May friendships bloom.”

Then, she turns back to Chirrut, and Baze retreats to the edge of the room gladly. He listens this time though, watches as Draxi unfolds the robes and kneels so that she is at eye level with Chirrut. She helps them into them, leaving his old tunic in a heap on the floor. It will be burnt later. She leans and murmurs something in Chirrut's ear, quietly enough that Baze cannot hear it. She smiles, and rises, pulling Chirrut up with her. When she speaks again, it is clear, bell-like in the quiet afternoon.

“For every selfish thought you have, spare one for those in need. For every coin you earn, give one to those in need.” Draxi pauses. “Your life is not your own any more, Chirrut. You have a duty to others now. Do you understand?”

Chirrut nods solemnly. “I do.”

Draxi grins. “Then welcome, little brother.”

-

Trying to make any kind of headway with his studies with Chirrut around is nothing short of nightmarish. He isn't just a distraction, he's an obstacle. He is loud, and is always laughing with the gaggle of followers he's acquired. He snickers and fidgets during prayers, hasn't been seen in the library since he arrived and whenever it's time for kitchen or laundry duty, is always feigning sickness. Draxi says that he needs time to adjust. Baze thinks he just needs a kick up the ass.

Yesterday in the courtyard, he had been sparring with one of the younger boys. A noise had distracted him, and the youngster had managed to land a blow just below Chirrut's left eye. Chirrut had laughed and laughed, and had spent the rest of the day wearing the bruise like a badge of honour.

He's sitting opposite Baze now, his cheek purple and swollen. Chirrut keeps bringing his hand up to press at it, and Baze wants to tell him to stop. Doing so would be admitting that he was looking at Chirrut though, which is exactly what Chirrut would like.

“Spar with me,” says Chirrut. It's the third time he's asked Baze in as many days.

“No,” Baze replies, looking straight back down at his book.

“Why?” asks Chirrut.

“I've no appetite to _grapple_ with you in front of a crowd of screaming ten year olds. Besides, I'm not any good.”

“Broov says you are.”

“Broov is a fantasist of the highest order. He thinks that Lina from the dumpling shop is in love with him.” Chirrut laughs at that, and Baze curses himself. Chirrut is determined to draw him into conversation, and Baze, like a fool, lets himself be strung along. He looks back down at his book, his fingers, anything but Chirrut's grinning face.

“I'll be going now then,” he declares when it becomes clear that Baze isn't going to say anything else. He says it loudly, as if doing so will suddenly earn him a change of heart from Baze. Baze says nothing though, only nods in acknowledgement. Chirrut waits for a moment more, and then sighs. “I'll see you at dinner,” he says. Baze grunts, hoping that will bring the conversation, one sided as it is, to a close.

When he is finally by himself, he finds that he can't focus on his book any more. He's supposed to be learning some rudimentary healing, enough so that when he's sent out on guard duty or has to travel he'll be able to patch himself and his companions up. Baze isn't the only one who's trying to take it all in – he can see Broov sitting cross-legged on a rug in the corner of the courtyard, with his book balanced on his thigh. He's looking up at the sky rather than at it though. No doubt dreaming of Lina and her dumplings.

Chirrut is busying himself teaching one of the younger initiates how to stretch before sparring. As much as Chirrut grates on Baze, he's good with the children. He listens to them and doesn't talk down to them, which is more than can be said for some of the elders who have been teaching here for decades. In return, the children adore him, tugging on his robes and squealing with delight when he picks them up and throws them over his shoulder. Chirrut's ability to sense things without even needing to see them makes him even more captivating to the children, who regularly try to sneak up on him only for Chirrut to sense them at the last minute, sending them back across the courtyard laughing.

Baze looks back at his book. It's opened on a page that describes the best ways to treat bruises. He thinks of Chirrut's face, all purple-pink and tender.

He slams the book shut.

-

NiJedha is an old city, with roads twisting and curling into each other, buildings built high and leaning, and residents from every conceivable corner of the galaxy. Many who came as pilgrims stayed and raised families of their own, Baze's included. If he takes a right out of the arches leading back into the temple, and then down a little alleyway, past the Rook's haberdashery, and then up the steep stone steps at the end of that street, he'll reach the house where he was born. He doesn't know who lives there now, not since his aunt had sold it and moved to Corellia. So he turns left, towards the market.

When Baze was small he'd spend whole days here, staying with his aunt at her stall long until after dark. He remembers the smells of all the different foods, and sometimes if he was lucky he'd get a few credits from a generous customer and be able to try something. He used to like the flatbreads, impossibly thin and light, stuffed with curds and little sharp fruits. Or the crushed ice spiked with those orange berries that used to grow on the tree opposite his bedroom window.

Now though, he weaves his way through the crowds in the jewellery quarter, ignoring the calls from hawkers imploring him to buy one of their necklaces for his beloved. When he reaches his destination the hubbub of the market is a low hum in the background. The planes of the desert fan out beneath the cliff's edge, and the city is a solid presence behind him. Baze sits on the ground and looks up. Here, he can think – and of course, there's only one thing that occupies his mind these days.

Despite Baze's best intentions, Chirrut seems determined to spend time with him. Trying to coax him into conversation, to sparring with him, to telling Chirrut about himself. Baze isn't sure what his intentions are – he's reminded of the bullies who lived on his street who'd lure him into playing slingball before leaving him bruised and bloody in the alleyway behind his house. It was only when Baze had grown big and burly over the span of one summer that they'd left him alone – and then the temple had become his home soon after that anyway. Since then, he's kept himself to himself, staying out of trouble and avoiding upsetting any of his new companions. His only real friend at the temple is Broov, and even then, Baze wouldn't dream of confiding in him. He's perfectly happy by himself most of the time.

The desert below him is vast and empty. Baze grew up in the city, but it's out here that he feels most at home. Soon he'll have to head back to the temple, and Chirrut. For now though, he lays back against the ground and looks up at the sky. NaJedha looms above him, a behemoth that for the moment, puts Baze's worries into perspective.

-

“I'm going to _what_?!”

Baze doesn't often raise his voice. When he was young, his teachers had always told him to speak up, and even now he keeps his words pitched low and quiet. This though, warrants him to be loud - for him anyway.

“Baze, you don't dislike Chirrut do you?”

 _I do,_ Baze wants to say. _He's too loud and arrogant and distracting. He doesn't care about anything unless he has an audience, and I can never tell if he's being cruel or funny._ Instead, he schools his face into something he hopes conveys absolute pure indifference. “I don't know him that well, that's all.”

Elder Xv sighs. “I know that you've not had to share with anyone since Dila left, but there's not a lot of room. Besides, Chirrut would do well to spend time with you. You'd be a calming influence on him, I think.”

Baze doubts that there is a person in the galaxy who could encourage Chirrut to calm down, but he nods. “If that's what you want.”

Xv looks at him, narrow eyes almost closed in their concentration. “I would appreciate it, young one.” He straightens, and smiles. “Don't worry so much,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Baze's hair. “Such a serious face.”

“Sorry.”

Xv sighs. “You don't need to be sorry, Baze. Look, I'll help Chirrut to bring his things up this evening.”

“Does he know?” Baze asks.

“Oh yes,” Xv says brightly. “I told him just before I came to find you. He was very pleased.”

“Of course he was,” Baze says before he can stop himself.

“Baze, if you really don't want to-”

“-no, it's fine. I don't want to cause any trouble.”

“Have you ever?” Xv asks, his eyes kind. Baze feels horrible then. The Guardians had taken him in when he needed help, and this is how he's repaying them. If they wanted him and Chirrut to share quarters, there was nothing he could do about it. Baze would have to just try and ignore him. He's endured worse than this. It was just that his life at the temple until now had been perfectly bearable, with little in the way of surprises or distractions.

He bows at Xv, showing his deference to the elder. “All is as the Force wills it,” he says.

Xv looks at him oddly. “Yes,” he says. “Yes it is.”

-

That evening, the air is warm. The summer has been stretching on for weeks now, far hotter than any that Baze has lived through. Baze spots Chirrut over in the corner, perched on the edge of one of the fountains. He's alone for once, but Baze doesn't go over. Instead he sits himself down on the ground and just watches. Chirrut swishes his hand through the water and kicks his feet back against the wall. His eyes roam, never settling. One moment they're cast up at the sky, then across at the bell tower, then the rookery. Then suddenly, they're fixed on Baze. He starts. Chirrut raises a hand in greeting. How Chirrut had noticed him, he doesn't know. He doesn't go over to ask. When the bells for evening prayers toll, he gets up and moves slowly back into the shadows. Chirrut's eyes don't leave him.

-

“You don't particularly want me here, do you?” asks Chirrut when Xv has gone. They're sitting opposite each other, each perched on the edge of their beds.

“I'm used to being on my own,” says Baze. “That's all.”

“Is that through choice?” Chirrut asks. He's playing with his sleeves, and his fiddling has made the edges of the fabric fray. Moonlight is streaming in through the window, and he is half cast in shadow, his sharp face looking even more angular. _He isn't ugly at all_ , Baze thinks to himself – and then immediately tries to cast that thought from his mind.

“It's just how things are,” Baze replies, a little shortly.

Chirrut makes a sound of assent, but doesn't push it. He goes to the fresher, staff tapping along the ground. When he comes back, he turns his back to Baze and lays facing the wall. Baze knows that he's not sleeping – he's breathing far too quickly for that. Baze doesn't say anything though. He's not sure he'd know where to start.

-

Chirrut's connection with the Force is undeniably impressive. It's hard not to admire the way he moves when he spars, all grace and cunning. It's rare for anyone to actually land a punch on him, and when they do, Chirrut just laughs it off. One day, one of the other initiates insists that the echo box that Chirrut wore gave him an unfair advantage. Chirrut argues that it doesn't, but agrees to fight without it. Baze hears all about this from Vara, who had come running up the stairs to fetch him.

They reach the courtyard just in time to see Chirrut hand over his echo box to one of his little followers, and his challenger, a tall Duros named Grun, step up to the practice area. There's not much time left before the mid-morning bell rings, so they won't be able to inflict too much damage on each other. Baze sees Broov watching with his cousin on the other side of the courtyard, and they both raise their hands in greeting. Baze and Vara stay where they are though, half hidden behind a row of potted plants.

Chirrut and Baze drop down into their fighting stances, and Chirrut wobbles for a moment. Despite himself, Baze winces. As much as he doesn't care for Chirrut, he has no desire to see him beaten into the ground. Before he can make his excuses and go though, Grun aims a kick straight at Chirrut's head, who ducks sideways just in time. He's a little off balance, it's not hard to see. He takes a couple of punches to the shoulder, but does manage to swing his leg around to send Grun staggering backwards – who doesn't take that very well.

“He's cheating!” he shouts, looking around at the crowd that's gathered. “He must be!”

“No,” says Chirrut. “The Force protects me, that's all. It's a shame it doesn't think as highly of you.” With that, he takes a run at Grun, intending to grab him around the waist and throw him down onto the mat. Grun, however, has other ideas. He swings his arm out and punches Chirrut squarely in the gut, which sends Chirrut careering backwards, gasping in pain. Baze doesn't like that – Grun is hurting Chirrut just to make himself look better. He's wondering whether he should say something or get someone to come and help when the mid-morning bell rings, loud and clear even above the whooping and yelling of all the spectators. Grun looks down at Chirrut, who is kneeling on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

“We'll call it a tie,” he says. “To be fair, it wasn't really a fair match, was it? Me against someone like you _._ ”. He spits out the last word like it tastes foul in his mouth. Someone jeers at him, and Chirrut smiles.

“No,” says Chirrut. At first Baze thinks he's going to accept defeat, but then Chirrut cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out Grun's stance. He's standing over Chirrut, legs wide and hands planted on his hips. _Oh no._ “Especially with you leaving yourself so _exposed_ to a weaker opponent.” With that, he punches Grun between the legs. Hard.

The sound that Grun makes can only be described as a howl, and it brings three of the temple elders running into the courtyard. Two of them help Grun up, his arms swung over their shoulders, and look disapprovingly at the crowd of infinities.

“If you want to see some fools fight each other, head to one of the taverns. Now, haven't you all got lessons to head to?” says Elder Xv. With that, most of the initiates scatter, looking furtively over their shoulders at Chirrut.

“I'm disappointed in you Chirrut,” says Xv. “I would have thought you'd been above this sort of nonsense.”

“He did provoke me,” Chirrut says, but there's no fight in it. “He said that I was cheating because of my echo box.”

“So you prove yourself in other ways.” Xv tuts, and then turns towards Baze and Vara. “I can see you two hiding,” he says. “Go to your lesson Vara. Baze, come and patch up young Chirrut.” He waits for Vara to follow him back into the bell tower, and leaves Baze and Chirrut together in the middle of the courtyard.

Chirrut tilts his head towards the sound of Baze's footsteps. “My saviour,” he says in a singsong voice. Baze wonders if he's concussed.

“Hardly,” he replies. “I'm just making sure you don't drop down dead before evening prayers.”

“Ah,” Chirrut says. “Well, tell me how badly I'm managed to injure myself this time.”

Baze frowns. “It was Grun who sent you flying halfway across the courtyard. You didn't just decide to run into a brick wall.”

“You heard Elder Xv. I shouldn't have let him goad me into it. So I've as good as done this to myself. But thank you.”

Chirrut is being unusually self effacing, which Baze takes as some kind of strange new trickery. “Don't try to fool me into pitying you,” he says. “Or worse, agreeing with you. Come, let me look.” He sits down on the ground, and pats the space opposite him. Chirrut frowns, but does lower himself down on the ground. He can't help but wince as he does, and Baze rolls his eyes. “Where does it hurt?” he asks, hoping to get this over with sooner rather than later.

“Here,” Chirrut says, lifting him tunic up to bare his abdomen. There's a bruise just starting to form on the left-hand side, and Baze chooses to stare at that pointedly rather than at Chirrut's unmarred golden skin. He reaches out to touch it, and Chirrut hisses. “Sorry,” Baze whispers, more softly than he intends. “You'll need to get some ointment from the infirmary for that.”

“Now?” Chirrut asks.

“Yes,” Baze says. “Unless you want it to get worse.”

“Right,” Chirrut replies. “It's just...” and he trails off, clearly unsure of what to say next. He clears his throat. “My staff,” he says at last. “My echo box too. I don't know where they are.”

“I thought you could use the Force for that?” Baze says, and it comes out a little bitterly. Chirrut raises his eyebrows.

“Only to a point,” he says. “Does that make you feel better?”

Baze splutters for a moment. “N-no, I never meant-” and he brings a hand up to rub at his face. “I don't know what you can and can't do, can I?”

“No,” says Chirrut, all of his cheerful easiness suddenly absent. “I don't suppose you've ever thought to ask.”

Baze groans. “Right, wait there. I'll go and get the ointment for you. Try not to get into another fight while I'm gone. Please?” Chirrut doesn't say anything, but he does cross his legs and close his eyes. A small victory, which Baze takes gladly.

The infirmary isn't far from the courtyard, and it only takes Baze a few minutes to get there. He grabs a jar of ointment from the shelf, and some painkilling tabs too. He may not be sure where he stands with Chirrut, but he has no desire to prolong his discomfort. When he returns to the courtyard, Chirrut is sitting up against the wall.

“I'm back,” Baze says, sitting down opposite him.

“You're out of breath,” Chirrut says in response. “Did you rush back up here for me?”

Baze doesn't reply, just presses the strip of painkilling tabs into Chirrut's hands. “Here you go.” Chirrut places a tab on his tongue while Baze unscrews the jar. The smell of the ointment hits him almost instantaneously, herby and pungent, the smell that always accompanied grazed knees and bruised knuckles when he was a child. Chirrut wrinkles his nose too, and Baze has to hold in a laugh. “It does the job,” he says. “Do you...can you...”

Chirrut rolls his eyes and takes the jar. He lifts up his tunic again, and prods his bruised skin. Baze winces, sucking in the air through his teeth. Chirrut laughs at the noise, and starts to rub the ointment in. Baze watches the motion, how the sheen on Chirrut's skin just catches the sun.

“I did it to show him up, mainly.” Chirrut says out of nowhere – and it takes Baze a moment to realise what he's talking about. “I wanted to show him that I can fight just as well as him.” He sounds a little wounded. Baze doesn't really know how to respond, so he lets Chirrut continue. “I'm no cheat. I have this _gift,_ something I never asked for, and it makes me quick and strong and drives people like him mad.” He says the word _him_ like it's disgusting.

“I know,” Baze says. “I know.”

Chirrut laughs. “You of all people. I know you don't think very much of me Baze. You don't have to humour me.”

“I'm not the humouring kind,” Baze says. It's the truth.

“No,” Chirrut says. “You're not, are you?”

They sit there in silence after that.

-

The next few weeks pass a little like this: Baze wakes early, not used to the sound of someone else's breathing after so long. Baze knows that Chirrut doesn't drift off until the early hours sometimes – such is the luck of being blind. Once he is asleep though, he's hard to wake. So Baze can get dressed, gather up his books and head up onto one of the roof gardens until sunrise. When he returns, Chirrut will be stirring, stretching and yawning his way into the first hours of his day. He never mentions Baze's early morning sojourns into the gardens, and Baze doesn't mention the way Chirrut will toss and turn long into the night.

Baze also learns that Chirrut dreams vividly. He talks, thrashes around in his bed, and on one memorable occasion, sits up straight and shouts at the top of his voice. Baze curses Xv in these moments, but doesn't mention it to Chirrut. When he was young, his aunt had told him that someone's dreams were one of the only secrets that they could keep, and that you should never ask about them unless invited to. Baze does wonder what gets Chirrut so wound up though. Is it something bad? Or is it something good, something concupiscent? Baze is no stranger to those kinds of dreams – he's a young man, after all.

Baze dreams of the sea, mainly. Big, rolling waves that break against the shore, or a flat, smooth expanse of blue reflecting the moon's light. He's never seen the sea. One day, perhaps.

-

Chirrut turns eighteen on the hottest day of the summer. It's the warmest day anyone can remember for a while – even the old ladies on the succulent stall tell Baze how they've never seen weather quite like _this._ It's fitting really. Not only has Chirrut turned the temple upside down, he's done the same to the weather too.

Birthdays, unless they fall on a rest day, aren't treated with any ceremony by the elders. It's plainly obvious that Chirrut is perturbed by this, clearly used to spending his birthday in better company. He tells every passing person that he is eighteen today – _a man grown, can you believe it?I_ For someone who loves attention as much as he does, it must be hellish.

Baze laughs into his history book.

He's going to be sent out on his first solo assignment soon – Draxi has told him so. To be sent out to do the bidding of the elders is a great honour indeed, and Baze can't help but wonder what's expected of him. Presumably the elders will play to his strengths – his physicality (good), his judge of character (troubled at present, but usually reliable) and his knowledge of the history of their order (impressive). Baze can do nothing but wait though. It's maddening to not know what's ahead, although he tells no one how he feels. He doesn't want them to think that sharing a room with Chirrut is turning him into a brat too.

Chirrut sighs, and sits back against the wall. It's clearly meant to get Baze's attention, so he carries on reading his book. Another second, another sigh. It's only when Chirrut starts drumming his feet against the wall that Baze admits defeat.

“Fine,” he says, hoping to convey as much annoyance as possible. “What do you want?”

“Aren't you going to ask me what today is?”

“I don't need to,” says Baze. “It's your birthday.”

Chirrut's mouth falls open for a moment, all of his arrogance and bullishness replaced by a comical disbelief. “You knew!” he says, incredulous. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“It's just another day, Chirrut. Remember your vows. Your life is not your own now. Serve others, not yourself.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I just want to have a little _fun_ though.”

“Well, go and ask one of your friends. I'm trying to study.”

“Baze, that's all you ever do.”

Baze rolls his eyes. “Yes, because I want to learn. There's more to life than just...whatever it is that you're interested in.”

Chirrut pouts, affronted. “Fine,” he says. “Be like that. It's no wonder that none of the other initiates ask you to join in with anything.”

“Is that meant to bother me Chirrut? I suspect that they just follow you mindlessly and take very little interest in what I think about anything, despite your best efforts to draw me into one of your little pranks. Which is perfectly fine by me.”

“What's _that_ meant to mean?”

“It means leave me alone and stop trying to make a spectacle out of me. Believe it or not, I can think of better ways to spend my time than you embarrassing me in front of your friends.” With that, he closes his book and stands up. Chirrut is practically vibrating with anger now. “Enjoy your birthday Chirrut. Happy now?” He makes his way to the bell tower, where he hopes he'll be able to find some peace and quiet.

Chirrut, it seems, has other ideas. Baze has barely sat down in his new reading spot when he hears that all too familiar _tap-tap._ He groans. Chirrut comes flying into the room, and Baze is pretty sure if a mood had a colour, Chirrut would be making the whole room glow red.

“I have no idea why you seem to think yourself so _above_ me, but I can tolerate that. It's the implying that I'm some kind of mindless bully that's really done it for me.” He hits his staff against the ground, hard. “I have no desire to coax you into doing something that you don't want to do, or to embarrass you in front off all of your friends. Your friends, not mine! Do you think that I've been welcomed with open arms?!” He takes a deep breath, colour rising in his cheeks.

It's Baze's turn to gape. “ _What_?!”

“You heard me well enough! Oh, you're _insufferable_!” Chirrut shouts, banging his hands down on the table where Baze's books are spread out. “You don't have to treat everything I do with such suspicion. It's one step forwards and then a hundred back whenever I speak to you. Maybe I’m just trying to be nice!”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I want to be your friend!”

Baze is truly struck dumb now. Surely he hasn't judged Chirrut so poorly? This is surely another joke. He looks past Chirrut to make sure that there isn't a gaggle of other initiates enjoying the show. There isn't. He gulps. “But you don't like me.” he says quietly. “Why would you?”

Chirrut brings his hands up to his face. Baze notices that the knuckles on his left hand are bloody. Baze suspects that if he goes back down into the courtyard where he and Chirrut were sitting, he'll find a red smear on the wall. “Because,” he says from behind his hands, “you're the only one here who doesn't treat me like some performing tooka. You helped me after Grun beat me into the floor that afternoon. You don't ask me about my nightmares. But mainly it's because you're lonely. And so am I.” He takes a deep breath, and brings his hands back down. He starts fiddling with his sleeves. “I'm fed up with trying,” he says. “You've made it pretty clear that you don't want to know. All of the other boys, they say that you're stuck-up, that you never want to join in with anything. Maybe they're right. Maybe you're not worth it.”

Baze is clearly meant to say something to that, but he finds that all of his words have taken flight out of his mouth, through the window and up into the atmosphere. Chirrut waits, but when it becomes apparent that he's not going to get anything out of Baze, he makes a frustrated sound and goes back through the door he came in.

Not for the first time, Baze is left alone with his books. Right now though, it doesn't feel very nice at all.

-

Chirrut stays true to his word, and stops talking to Baze altogether. This makes the atmosphere in their room extremely uncomfortable. The nights are hot too, and Baze spends the nights tossing and turning, listening to Chirrut doing exactly the same.

Really though, despite all of the awkwardness, it's quite easy to just carry on as if nothing has happened. Baze feels guilty that he has hurt Chirrut so deeply – who wouldn't? As he suspects that there's nothing he can do about it now, he stays silent too.

The Force, unfortunately, seems to have other plans.

“Sparring practice!” Draxi says, hitting him on the shoulder. “You've been ducking your duties for a while now, little brother. It's time to show the kids how it's done.”

Baze groans. “Come on,” he says, pleading. “You know I don't like to-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Draxi says, cutting him off mid-sentence. “ _No appetite_ _for mindless violence_ , all that nonsense. Unfortunately Baze, this is part of your education. Are you a Guardian grown yet?”

“No,” Baze murmurs, admitting defeat.

Draxi grins. “Well, come on then.”

The courtyard is set up to accommodate three sets of sparring partners, with mats laid out on the floor. Someone has placed staffs against the wall – not that Baze will use them. If he's going to do something he regrets, he'd much rather do it with his own hands. Maybe that will change as he gets older. For now though, he gives any weapons a wide berth, and sits down on a bench. Chirrut is there, sitting between two younger boys who are hanging off his every word.

The routine is the same as it's always been. Everyone's names are written down on tiny pieces of paper and placed into a sack. One of the elders will draw two names out of that sack, and then they'll face off for ten minutes, or until there's a clear victor. It's simple. Fair.

Baze wishes he had a book to hand, or something to focus on rather than Chirrut. It's impossible to tell whether he's noticed Baze there, or if one of his two companions has told him. So Baze looks down at his hand, and just waits. Half an hour passes, and then Baze's name is called.

A second. Then another.

“Chirrut Îmwe!”

Baze groans under his breath. Chirrut looks nonplussed at first glance, but Baze can see how he's gone a little red, how he's started to fiddle with his damn sleeves. Baze feels like running back to the library, but he suspects that Draxi might kill him first. He can feel her eyes burning into the back of his head now, trying to figure out what he'll do next. So Baze walks to the mat, takes off his shoes and waits for Chirrut to do the same.

“Armed or unarmed?” signs Treha, a tall, slightly intimidating Anomid. Both Baze and Chirrut indicate that they'll fight without weapons, and she nods, holding ten fingers up. Baze drops down into his favoured stance, and so does Chirrut. Satisfied, Treha blows a whistle. _Begin_.

Chirrut stands still for a moment, considering first move. Baze, who wants to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, aims a kick at Chirrut's shoulder. It's a school-yard move really, but Baze has zero desire to impress everyone with his fighting prowess. Chirrut dodges it with a duck and rolls, trying to back Baze into a corner. A sidestep counteracts that, and they're facing each other on different sides of the mat.

“Stop going easy on me,” Chirrut says. He hasn't spoken to Baze in over a week, so his voice is jarring, cutting through all the background noise. He swings his leg out at Baze then, an arching kick that's meant to knock his legs out from underneath him. It works. Baze lands on his back with a grunt, and Chirrut lets out a little “ _ha_!”.

Not to be outdone, Baze does exactly the same thing to Chirrut. Only from this angle, he can't so much kick him in the back of the legs as hook his own leg around Chirrut's thigh and pull him down. On top of Baze.

He notices that everyone has stopped talking.

Chirrut looks surprised for a moment, but then shrugs. Before Baze can do anything else, he _straddles_ him, and begins to punch him in the chest – little quickfire strikes that make Baze's ribs ache. He wrestles his arms out from underneath Chirrut's thighs, and holds him firmly around the waist. He does it quickly enough to startle him, and can roll them over so that Baze is now the one with the advantage.

Only, he doesn't particularly want to do anything with it. Chirrut snarls at him, baring his teeth. “Come on,” he says. “You've got me now. Hurt me.” He raises his hips in mock struggle, clearly hoping to goad Baze back into action. “Come on you _brute_ ,” he says, a little breathless.

Baze's heart is beating quickly now, and his skin feels tight all over. It doesn't feel bad to have Chirrut here, pinned to the mat beneath him. He's breathing heavily, and so is Chirrut. Neither of them have particularly exerted themselves. There is a bead of sweat on Chirrut's brow. His mouth is open – and Baze can't help but notice just how pink his lips are, how-

“Stop!” comes Draxi's voice, making Baze start. “Time's up.” he turns towards the sound and sees her looking at them as if she's weighing something up in her mind. The moment passes though, and she smiles. “On this occasion, the Force has deemed the two of you to be equals. Well done.”

With that, it's over. Chirrut shifts minutely under Baze, and Baze feels something minute shift within him.

-

In the dying days of the short Jedhan summer, a festival is held. It is a festival for the dead, and the old tale goes like this: the dead are trapped in the hot earth during the summer, their spirits held in the ground by the baking heat of the sun. When the winter winds come, they lift the spirits out of the ground, and carry them on – to wherever that may be. The truth of it is that summer makes people unsettled, and this morbid little festival signals the return of harsh storms, of bleak winters. Jedha, a lonely rock in a lonely corner of the galaxy, is suited to misery. Or so Baze has always thought.

The Rising, as the festival is known, falls late this year. The summer has been uncharacteristically long, and everyone is tense. Finally, the soothsayers in the south say that the winter is coming, and the dead will make the earth rock for their long months of waiting. With that, some tension seems to bleed out of the city. Banners are hung in the squares, street performers start to hum old songs as easily as shrugging on a winter coat, and excitement builds.

Baze, for all of his cynicism, has always enjoyed the Rising. He feels more suited to the cold; to long nights and cloudy skies.

Chirrut, on the other hand, is summer personified. Golden, radiant. Baze watches him in the mornings as he practices in the courtyard. He stretches like a loth-cat in the hazy light, his body seeming to grow stronger and more luminous as the sun rises in the sky. Baze does not join him. Since they sparred, Baze has kept his distance. The way that Chirrut makes him feel has sent him off-kilter, and he cannot wait for winter to come and with it, normality.

There's going to be a party in Tythoni Square tonight. Baze had thought about not going, now that the situation with Chirrut had gone from uncomfortable to excruciating. Something about what Chirrut had said when they fought though, about Baze being standoffish, has irritated him. It's petty to go along to something out of pure spite, but that's the strange kind of world Baze is living in now.

Chirrut is nowhere to be seen right now. Baze has woken for the past few days to find the room empty. Perhaps he's found somebody else to share with. Xv would have come to speak to Baze about that though. So Chirrut is avoiding Baze as Baze is avoiding Chirrut. The crowd tonight will be big enough to get lost in. Neither of them will have to speak to each other.

Fine. Good.

-

Tythoni Square is rammed full of people, and it's not even dark yet. Apparently there's going to be fireworks and music later, and everyone seems to be in high spirits already. Baze can see a few people he recognises – Draxi's friend Leevi with her girlfriend Brahi Rook, Xara from the market, and Broov and some of the other boys from the temple who frantically wave him over.

“You came!” Broov says excitedly. “I told these _bantha-fodders_ that you'd make it!”

“Chirrut said you wouldn't,” says Frex, a tall, purple-haired Theelin. He looks at Baze suspiciously, as if he's going to reveal himself to be a hologram at any moment.

“Well,” Baze replies. “Chirrut is wrong, more often than not.” Frex raises an eyebrow, and Broov laughs.

“Come brother,” he says, slinging an arm around Baze's shoulder. “Let's get you a drink. It's going to be a long night.” The musicians are filing into the square, and the queues at the makeshift bars are getting longer by the minute. It seems that everyone in the Holy City has descended on this square, and there's a thrum of excitement just starting to build.

Baze catches sight of Chirrut just after his third glass of daranu, and by then, he's drunk enough to not really care. Broov has found Lina, she of the famous dumplings, and she's regaling them all with the story of a long-haired Jedi and his surly apprentice who had to spend the night in the apartment above her shop when a sandstorm hit.

“The young one, he was very serious.” she says. “Jedi are far too buttoned-up. If they pulled their heads out of their asses they'd be much better company.”

“Do you like a man who's a little more _free,_ Lina?” Broov asks, trying his best to sound lascivious.

“I don't really like men,” says Lina. Frex chokes on his drink.

Baze looks over at Chirrut, who is leaning against the wall. He's refusing a drink from Eeth, a tall, handsome boy who's a few months younger than him. He does laugh though, grabbing Eeth by the shoulder and pulling him close to whisper something in his ear. Baze looks away then. His stomach feels tight, and he thinks he needs another drink. Broov, who is wearing the look of a man who's just had his world knocked out from underneath him, looks like he could do with one too. Frex dutifully marches them both to the bar, and orders drinks for them all. That's all that occupies Baze for a while. Eventually, Broov and Frex stop talking to him, They have started to argue between themselves quietly – although they're talking in stage whispers more than anything. Baze leaves them to it. He's got no idea where the other boys from the temple are. He gets another drink. It tastes like nectar, sweet and thick. According to the bartender, it's incredibly strong too.

Good.

By the time the music starts in earnest an hour later, Baze is drunk enough not to care if Chirrut suddenly materialised in front of him and wrestled him to the floor. He isn't sure why that's the mental image his brain keeps supplying him with, but he's pretty sure it's down to the all the alcohol he's consumed. He takes a look around. Over by the Broov is laying face down on a bench, Frex patting his back gently. An early night for both of them, Baze thinks.

Baze sees Chirrut again. He's dancing with some Twi'lek girls, head thrown back in laughter. One of them catches Baze looking, and beckons him over. He shakes his head, and she laughs. Chirrut must ask her what's going on, because she leans in close, hand presses flat against his chest. She points at Baze again, and Chirrut frowns.

Baze turns his back, and pushes his way further into the crowd. He's not much of a dancer, but it's easy enough to sway with the motion of the people around him, occasionally pressing palms together in greeting or laughing together. It's nice. When the drumming starts – the countdown to the fireworks, the crowd starts to thin out in the middle. The drummers weave through them, and one passes directly by Baze, and the booming noise of the barrel he's banging with his fists is so loud Baze can feel the beat in his teeth.

When the crowd has fanned out to the edges of the square, the drummers start spinning around in the middle of the circle, the beat getting faster and faster. There are fire dancers too – lithe, impossibly beautiful women wielding flaming swords. They throw them up in the air in time with the drumming, eliciting noises of awe from the crowd. Baze catches sight of Chirrut again. His face is lit by the flames, and it makes him look drawn and sharp. Frightening, even. Baze looks to his side for a moment, distracted by shouting. A fight is breaking out, and the crowd cheers as two men scuffle uselessly, clearly too drunk to manage much else. When Baze looks back to where Chirrut was standing, he's gone.

Then the fireworks begin, and Baze cannot do anything else but look up. The sky is lit up in every imaginable colour, green one minute, silver and gold the next. Everyone is cheering, and the man who's standing next to Baze swings an arm around and over his shoulder. It's heavy, and makes a metallic _clunk_ as it encircles him. The man smells of sweat and alcohol, but he seems friendly enough.

“Blessings be with you brother,” Baze shouts, and his new friend cheers, echoing the sentiment. Before long though, he's distracted by something, or someone, and is heading off. Baze is left alone once more. He lets himself be pulled back further into the crowd, and doesn't stop anyone pushing in front of him. Before long, he's at the very edges of the square. He spots Frex and Broov again – the latter conscious now. They're deep in conversation though, and Broov has his left hand resting on top of Frex's right. _Ah,_ Baze thinks to himself. _Lina who?_

It's getting colder now. Baze should head back to the temple before he regrets it. On his way out of the square, he looks for Chirrut – out of habit, more than anything, he tells himself. His search, half hearted as it is, yields nothing, and Baze lets his tired, unsteady feet carry him back to the sleeping quarters. When he opens the door to his room, he finds Chirrut asleep in bed. That hot, tight feeling in the pit of Baze's stomach comes back at the sight of Chirrut's shirt bunched up around his stomach.

Baze passes out before he can think about it too much.

-

A few hours later, Baze wakes up to the sound of crying. For a moment he thinks he's been thrust out of a bad dream too soon, but then he realises that the pitiful sounds are coming from Chirrut – little pained wails that echo in the quiet room. He's thrashing around in bed, clearly caught up in the throes of a nightmare.

Baze, still half-drunk, lays back down and hopes it will pass. Chirrut only gets louder though, and eventually, Baze finds himself sitting on the edge of Chirrut's bed. He nudges him, which earns him another wail, this one desperate.

“Chirrut,” Baze says, reaching over to shake him. “Chirrut, wake up. You're having a bad dream.” Chirrut doesn't wake at first, not until Baze brings a hand to his face. Baze means to tap him, to urge him awake and say _I'm trying to sleep, for Force's sake._ Instead, the motion is gentle, and this is what sees Chirrut wake. He gasps, taking in great lungfuls of air, and leans into the palm of Baze's hand.

“I'm not going,” he sobs – actual sobs, tears running down his face. “I'm not, I don't want t-”

“Chirrut,” Baze says again. “It was a dream. You're fine.”

Chirrut shakes his head. “I wish it wasn't you,” he says, his voice wobbling.

Baze is drunk, but he's pretty certain that Chirrut is talking nonsense here. Either that or he's missing something. “What?” he asks.

“My dream,” Chirrut says. “I was dreaming of you.”

“Oh,” Baze says. “Sorry.” What else can he say, really? He goes to the fresher to get a glass of water. He gulps it down himself, and then refills the glass for Chirrut. He walks back into the bedroom, which is illuminated by the soft rays of the rising sun now, and passes it to him. Chirrut takes it gladly, though not without a glare in Baze's general direction. He drinks it quickly, and then, with a little guesswork, places it on his bedside table. It wobbles for a moment, then settles. The atmosphere in the room does the exact opposite.

“There was shouting, and gunfire. I fell backwards and when I put my hand to the ground, I could feel sand between my fingers. I was hurt, here-” and he jabs at his stomach, the same place he'd been struck during that fight in the courtyard.

“Did I hurt you?” Baze asks.

Chirrut sighs. “No,” he says softly. “You were holding me, comforting me.” He laughs, a short, humourless sound. “Ironic, really.”

“Chirrut-”

“You said _'don't go, I'm here_ ',” Chirrut says, seemingly oblivious to anything Baze is saying. “Why? Why you? Why is it-”

“Chirrut, can I-

“-I asked myself that, a-”

“Chirrut!” Baze doesn't mean to raise his voice, but Chirrut's ability to talk himself into a corner can't be underestimated. “For once in your life, listen.” Chirrut stops, and purses his lips. Baze would laugh if his heart didn't feel like it was about to burst out of his chest. He takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry for how I've treated you. I've thought very little of you, and I was wrong. You tried to be kind to me, and I didn't even think to trust you. I ruined your birthday too. Broov told me off for that. So there. I'm sorry. Truly.”

“You were cruel,” Chirrut says plainly. “I shouldn't have kept pushing you but you were cruel.”

“I know.”

“This order preaches that newcomers are always welcome, that no matter what brings you here you'll find friends. You never extended that to me.”

“I know.”

“You think me below this, that I'm a little street rat who should know his place.”

“No, that's not true.”

“Not now maybe, but you did. I'm blind, yes. I'm not stupid as well.” Baze hesitates for a moment, which is enough for Chirrut. He kicks his legs out, urging Baze off his bed. Baze grabs Chirrut's hand, and he stills just long enough for Baze to sit back down.

“I thought you were a mindless troublemaker at first, yes. I'd only ever seen you kicking someone's teeth out in the marketplace, or trying to swindle some gullible traveller out of a few credits. You've proven me wrong though. Yes, you don't study, and you have no patience. That's infuriating. But you train hard, and you've done your best to make friends. More than I ever did when I first came here.”

For a moment Chirrut says nothing. Then he sighs. “Thank you.” He brings a hand to his hair, which is growing too long again. “I'm sorry too.”

“For what?”

“Being insufferable.”

Baze laughs. “Did I ever use that word?”

Chirrut smiles. “No, but it was implied. You think anyone who goes out to seek attention or admiration is a fool, and a self-obsessed one at that.” His face is wet with tears, and he looks so young. Baze realises that he knows nothing about Chirrut's life, or what path led him here, or what caused him to lose his sight. For someone who prides himself on figuring out the measure of a person, Baze is falling woefully short here.

“I don't court attention,” he says. “I try to stay in the background. I've never really had any friends.”

“That's ridiculous,” says Chirrut. “False modesty won't do you any favours here.”

“I'm not being modest,” Baze says. “No one seeks out my company unless I can do something for them, or they want to show me something, or they want to invite me-”

“That,” Chirrut says, “is called having friends.” He frowns. “What happened to you Baze? To make you like this?”

Baze stills. Chirrut waits.

He sighs. “I don't want to talk about my childhood, if that's what's you're trying to get at.”

“I'm not trying to get you to talk about anything.”

“I was supposed to be comforting you, I think. That was what was meant to be happening here.” It's a lazy tactic, but Chirrut says nothing. He shifts on the bed a little, and finally lets go of Baze's hand. “Yes,” he says. “You were, and you were doing a terrible job of it.”

“I can't imagine dreaming of me is particularly sweet,” Baze responds. “I'm sorry that the way I've treated you has affected you so much.”

Chirrut laughs. “You weren't even the start of it Baze. Now, let me go back to sleep. I don't think an of the elders are going to have much sympathy for two teenage boys who spent the whole night getting drunk and speaking in riddles.”

Baze doesn't sleep for a while, and listens to the sound of Chirrut's steady, even breathing in the pink-gold light of the morning. Something has shifted between them, and Baze's hand is still warm where Chirrut had been holding it.

The next morning, Baze wakes to Chirrut sitting on the end of his bed. His head is sore, his mouth dry – ah, a hangover! Fantastic. The memories of last night come flooding back to him: fireworks, alcohol, Chirrut dancing in the middle of the square. Then Chirrut crying, thrashing around in his bed. Baze's realisation that'd he'd got it all wrong. _Ugh._

“I'd like to die please,” he says to Chirrut, and puts his head under the pillow. Force, it feels like the band from last night is playing right behind his eyes.

“Well, drink this water first.”

Baze peers out from underneath the pillow, and sees that Chirrut is indeed holding a glass of water. Plus some painkilling tabs. He looks back at Chirrut's face. Calm, benign. Baze frowns. “You're being nice to me,” he says.

Chirrut rolls his eyes. “ _Obviously,_ ” he says. “Take this water before I throw it over you.”

Baze takes the tabs first, and lets them dissolve on his tongue. Then he drains the glass of water in one long swallow. Chirrut, annoyingly, seems to be as perky as ever. Baze clears his throat. “So,” he begins.

“ _So_ ,” Chirrut echoes.

“What now?” Baze asks. He suspects that last night was a turning point of sorts, but the direction in which they're now heading isn't clear at all.

“We start again,” Chirrut says. He extends his hand. “Hello, I'm Chirrut. What's your name?”

Baze hesitates for a moment, then takes Chirrut's hand and shakes it. “I'm Baze,” he says, feeling faintly ridiculous.

“Baze,” says Chirrut, as if he's weighing it up on his tongue. He lets go of Baze's hand – slowly, running the tips of his fingers along Baze's palm. “I'm sure we're going to get along just fine.”

-

The next few days pass a little like this: Baze will wake, and Chirrut will still be sleeping. Baze doesn't flee to the roof gardens now though. He stays and reads, or watches some shows on his holopad. When the clock on the other side of the courtyard chimes, and light begins to fill the room in earnest, Chirrut will stir.

Baze watches him as he wakes, yawning, stretching his arms above his head. If Chirrut knows, he says nothing.

Baze doesn't often start their conversations, but Chirrut doesn't seem to mind. He'll ask Baze what he's reading, or tell him to describe the characters in the holoshow that he's watching. Other times he'll tell Baze what his plans are for the day, what he's going to pick up at the market, who he's going to spar with.

He doesn't ask Baze to spar with him. They're getting along well now, but they don't ever speak about that. Sometimes, in those hours before Chirrut wakes, Baze thinks of how Chirrut looked beneath him that afternoon, slack-jawed and gasping.

Baze was sure that with winter would come normality. Well, it's bought relief – but a whole lot more uncertainty too.

-

Baze gets his first solo assignment three weeks later. He's to go to a little trading outpost on the other side of Jedha and identify some relics that might be of interest. Their order serve the temple, and preserving the history and culture that's associated with it is an essential part of that. Draxi smiles at him as she passes him a holopad with all the details there for Baze to examine. Departure date: four days time, estimated duration of trip: three to four days, assigned partner: Chirrut Îmwe-

He looks back up at Draxi to see her sporting a grin that looks in danger of splitting her beautiful face in two. “Surprise!” she says.

Baze rolls his eyes. “Hardly. I suspect this was your plan all along.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “I thought that you'd bring out the best in each other, even when you weren't speaking. How are things now?”

Baze thinks of the way Chirrut smiles at him now, a shaky thing that nonetheless, gets brighter every day. “Better,” he says. He means it.

“Good,” Draxi says. “Now, run along and tell him you're going to be going on a little trip together.”

Baze finds Chirrut sitting on a bench just outside the temple gates. He's tapping his staff against the floor, an absent-minded action while he listens to the conversations of passers-by. The sound of Baze's footsteps brings him out of his reverie, and he turns towards him.

“We,” Baze says as he sits down next to him, “have a mission.”

Chirrut cocks his head to the side as if he's considering it. “You sure you'll be able to see it through without killing me?” He places a hand on Baze's leg – and waits. When Chirrut does something for the first time, it is always careful, considered. If he doesn't get the reaction he's looking for, he distracts with clever words, blames his lack of sight when he doesn't need to.

Baze looks down at Chirrut's hand on his thigh, his thin, tapering fingers. “We should pack,” he says. He doesn't ask Chirrut to move his hand. Chirrut doesn't hurry to.

-

Baze rents out a speeder from a little vehicle shop just on the edge of the city. Well, rent is one way of putting it. When you're a member of the oldest holy order on Jedha, people tend to waive the fee. It's a busted-up old thing, with paint peeling off and a few dents on the left hand side. The dealer tells Baze that it's fast though, and Baze has known him since he was a little boy, and trusts him. So Baze tells him that he'll be back in a few days, and they shake hands.

The day he and Chirrut leave, the sky is clear and a cold breeze is whipping around corners and making shop signs rattle. “It's going to be a rough ride,” Baze tells Chirrut. He flings their bags into the storage compartment at the back of the speeder, and locks it. “You might want some goggles.”

Chirrut pulls a face. “You know I'm a little past needing those, right?”

Baze laughs. “Tell me that when you're crying because of all the sand in your eyes.” He throws Chirrut a pair. It's become something of a ritual between them, Baze testing Chirrut's superhuman reflexes. Chirrut, as expected, reaches out with his left hand and catches them. Baze feels that little familiar curl of jealousy, but pushes it down into a deeper part of himself. There's no use for it, not now.

“Always so sure I'm going to reveal myself as a fraud!” Chirrut says. “Test me all you like.” He stretches the band on his goggles, grinning away.

“Put the damn goggles on Chirrut. The Force might have looked after you this far, but I'll be there if it doesn't.”

Chirrut looks like he's going to respond to that, but then he sighs. With great effort (exaggerated, no doubt) he puts the goggles on. “How do I look?” he asks.

“Almost as stupid as you sound. Come on, we've got to get moving.”

“When did you get your speeder license?” Chirrut asks once they're strapped in.

Baze starts the engine, and the whole thing shakes. He turns back towards Chirrut, and has to shout over the din. “Chirrut, when have you _ever_ met a person from Jedha who has a genuine speeder licence?”

Chirrut swears loudly, and Baze puts his foot down.

The plains between the great mesas are huge, and it seems like they're getting nowhere fast at first. After a couple of hours though, as the sun starts to loom over the horizon, Baze spots a small settlement. When he was a child, he used to wonder endlessly about the people who made their homes in the vast wilderness. It seemed like such a wild, reckless thing to do. It still does.

“You want to stop for a while?” he asks Chirrut.

Chirrut is gripping onto his seat so tightly that the whites of his knuckles are showing, which Baze takes a yes. He pulls just into the mouth of a little cave that's not far from the group of ramshackle buildings. The brake is a little stiff, and he stops the speeder a little more suddenly than he means to. Chirrut groans, and promptly leans over the side of the speeder and vomits. “You,” he says when he sits back up, “are a terrible driver.”

“I'm going to blame the speeder on this occasion. Here, let me get you some water.”

“Oh, but I thought you trusted that dealer with your life? Surely you won't turn on him like that!”

Baze passes Chirrut the water bottle. “Well, there's nothing wrong with my driving, so it's his fault now.”

“I'm going to drive on the way back,” Chirrut says, entirely seriously.

Baze laughs out loud at that. “I know I'm supposed to have faith in the Force, but that's pushing it.”

Chirrut gulps down his water, and with his free hand, makes a decidedly vulgar gesture.

-

They make it to the trading outpost the next morning – they spend the night in a tent pitched up between two huge, looming boulders, a little fire keeping them warm. Baze sleeps better than he has in weeks, the quietness of the desert a complete contrast to the hustle and bustle of the temple.

Now, he's wide awake and wandering through these unfamiliar streets. Chirrut lags behind him a little, clearly not as well rested.

“Do you need to stop?” Baze says over his shoulder.

“No,” says Chirrut. “Lets find your books and get this over and done with. I'll sleep when we pitch up a tent in the middle of nowhere again.”

The books, as Chirrut crudely refers to them, are a collection of religious manuscripts that a local collector had decided he needs to sell on. Baze finds the address easily enough – it's a tall, yellow house in a narrow street that sticks out a few metres further than the buildings either side of it.

“Are you coming in?” he asks Chirrut.

Chirrut nods, and grips his staff.

“No fighting,” Baze warns.

Chirrut puts his hand to his chest in mock offence. “Me? Fighting?” He cocks his head to the side. “I'm a blind young man who's trying to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. Why on earth would I pick a fight?”

“Because it comes as easily to you as breathing. Stop holding that staff like you're going to crack someone's head open with it.”

Chirrut sighs. “No fighting. But I'm not going to just sit there if something goes wrong.”

“Chirrut, I'm looking over some ancient manuscripts. We're not carrying out a heist.”

“Whatever you say Baze.” He taps Baze on the ankle with his staff, clearly impatient to wind this up now that brawling has been ruled out. “Come on, it's freezing out here.”

Baze pushes the door open, and it creaks. “Ominous,” Chirrut mutters from close behind him, and Baze shushes him. The place is piled high with, well, _junk._ Old ceremonial weapons that would last five seconds in a real fight, 'kyber' crystals that are little more than shards of cheap glass, paintings that were months old rather than years.

“Fuck,” Baze mutters. “They're going to try and palm us off with a dud.”

“Are you telling me,” Chirrut says through gritted teeth, “that I put up with a day of your boy racing for nothing?”

“Put your staff _down_ Chirrut, for Force's sake. We've got to hear them out, otherwise yes, you will have put up with my perfectly good driving for nothing.”

“I should never have befriended you,” Chirrut whispers, and brings his staff back down to the floor with a little more force than is necessary. On a table next to them a china figurine, of a sarlacc of all things, rattles.

 _Befriended,_ Baze thinks to himself. He's distracted enough to not notice the tiny little old lady who appears from behind a pile of books.

“Ah!” she screeches, making Baze jump. Behind him. Chirrut snorts. “The boys from the temple. Come, come! I've got lots to show you.”

“She's a charlatan,” whispers Chirrut. When Baze steps forward to follow her, he groans. “Oh, come _on._ The only thing you're going to get out of this is an anecdote.”

“I'm doing what the elders asked of me,” Baze says. “Something you haven't quite mastered yet. I'll buy you dinner afterwards if you promise not to kick off.”

Chirrut raises his hands above his head. “Fine, fine. Just remember I've spent enough time around time-wasters and con artists to recognise one.”

They follow their host into a little room at the back of the shop. The manuscripts in question are piled up high on the table, and Baze's heart sinks when he can tell from the doorway that they're counterfeits. His sigh is picked up by Chirrut, who cheerily whispers “told you so” in Baze's ear.

“What was that?” the old woman says, pivoting around to look at them.

“Oh nothing!” says Chirrut loudly. “I was just admiring all your wonderful items.” The old lady smiles toothlessly, and returns to ruffling the papers on the table.

“No need to lay it on quite _that_ thick,” murmurs Baze. Chirrut shakes with silent laughter.

“Right,” says the woman. “Here you are. Prayer sheets, dating from-”

“Do you have any authentication of their age, Ms...”

“Teela. Teela Krandor.” She continues. “Well, I did try to explain this when I was speaking to your elders-”

“Here we go,” supplies Chirrut.

“-but things like this are very hard to date. I'm sure that when you take a closer look, you'll be able to see that they're genuine.”

Baze sits at the desk, and begins. It doesn't really take long to see that the manuscripts aren't genuine. They're just poorly made copies of religious texts that you can pull up for free on the holonet. Baze reaches out to touch one, and has to immediately suppress the urge to swear out loud.

“Ms Krandor,” he starts. “I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, but the ink on some of these is still wet.”

Chirrut, unable to hold it in for a moment longer, howls with laughter, banging his hand on the desk. Baze looks at Teela Krandor's incredible expression of faux surprise, and bursts out laughing too.

-

When they walk to the speeder later on, they do so in silence. They're full of food and still aching from laughing. The plan is to try and get halfway home before they camp overnight again. As compensation for being exposed to the elements for two nights in a row, Baze has bought food for them both. A bit too much really, but Chirrut manages to put an astonishing amount of food away for someone so slight. Baze is just reaching around in his pocket for the speeder keys when the ringing begins. There's noise coming from every bell tower in the town – and that can only mean one thing.

“Sandstorm,” Chirrut says, echoing what Baze just thought. He turns towards Baze. “What are we going to to do?”

“Well, I doubt a tent will suffice for tonight. Come on,” he says. Without thinking, he reaches for Chirrut's hand. They both still for a moment, and then Chirrut grips it in response. His hand is warm, and for a few seconds, Baze can't even hear the bells ringing. A sudden gust of wind brings him to his senses though, and he pulls his hand away. Chirrut makes a soft little sound, his lips parted. “We'll have to get a room for the night,” Baze hears himself say. Chirrut nods, and just like that, time speeds back up again. They go to the garages where the speeder is parked up, grab as much as they can carry, and head back down the road they just came.

The first motel they go to has no rooms left, as does the second. The third does – and Baze doesn't really care that it's three times as expensive. He bills it back to the temple anyway. Draxi can settle up, seeing as it's her fault they're stuck here right now.

“You got very lucky indeed,” says the girl behind the desk. Admittedly, Baze hasn't listened to a word she's said for a good thirty seconds. He _hates_ storms with a passion. They used to terrify him when he was a child, and he just wants the keys to a room so he can barricade himself away from danger. Chirrut, who is leaning nonchalantly against the desk, seems to be a little more alert.

“We did,” Chirrut says brightly. “Thank you so much.” He takes the keys from her, and smiles. “Now, make sure that you get home safely.”

Baze nods at her, and then a few seconds later he and Chirrut are alone, whizzing up to their floor in a lift that creaks and shakes.

“You did hear what she told us about the room, didn't you?” Chirrut asks when they're outside it.

“Of course I did,” Baze says. “Why wouldn't I?”

Chirrut feels for the lock with his left hand, and guides the key in slowly with his right. It clicks, and Chirrut pushes it open, and Baze takes a long look at the double bed that's right in the middle of the room.

“Right,” he says. “I may have missed that part.”

Chirrut hits him on the arm, and then reaches to shut the door behind them.

“I'll sleep on the floor,” Baze says. “I don't mind.”

“Yes, but your back will. Come on, just get in the damn bed. We share a room anyway, what's the problem?”

Baze can't really argue with that without sounding like an idiot, so he lets Chirrut take him by the hand and pull him to the bed.

“Do you want some of the food?” Baze asks.

“I want to sleep,” Chirrut says. “Today has been a long, hard farce.” He slips off his trousers, and gets under the covers. “Come on,” he says. “It's comfy. Just close your eyes and pretend that I'm not here.”

 _I'd like to do the exact opposite,_ Baze says, the realisation accompanied by a loud crash outside.

“I am tired,” he says to Chirrut. “Are you sure you don't m-”

“For the last time Baze, get in bed.” The way he says it is full of authority somehow, and that hot, tight feeling comes back with a vengeance, blooming in the pit of Baze's stomach and unfurling right to the tips of his toes.

It's going to be a long night.

-

When Baze wakes up in the middle of the night, the first thing he notices is just how warm Chirrut is. He radiates heat, even from all the way across the bed. The second thing that Baze notices is that he's hard. He closes his eyes and prays to any god that might be listening to help him out a little, but it persists. Chirrut lets out a little noise in his sleep, a sigh that's barely audible. He is so _warm._

Groaning, Baze rolls over and presses his face into the pillow.

Outside, the storm rages on.

-

When dawn breaks, there's still a thick cloud of sand obscuring the view from the window. There's barely enough light to fill the room, so Baze has to switch on the bedside lamp, which hums and crackles. He pulls his holopad out of his bag, casting a glance over at Chirrut. He's sleeping soundly, an arm flung above his head. Looking back at the screen, he sees that he has three messages. He knows before he taps to open them who they're going to be from.

_**Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:** _

_**(19:07) Thanks for the hotel bill, Malbus. Nice of them to forget the imminent storm for a moment and beg us for credits.** _

_**(19:09) Let me know how you're both getting on though. Are you safe? Did you get the manuscripts?** _

_**(23:45) I'm going to assume you're both sleeping otherwise I'm putting you on laundry duty for a month when you get back.** _

The thought of slaving away in the hot, smelly laundry room for weeks on end has Baze typing out a response in record time.

_**Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:** _

_**(05:09) Can confirm we're safe. Manuscripts were garbage – but you knew that.** _

Draxi's reply comes within a few seconds.

_**Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:** _

_**(05:09) Careful little brother. You're implying a temple elder has sent you to the other side of this**_ _**dustball under completely false pretences.**_

_**Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:** _

_**(05:10) If you told me that you'd booked out every room in this place just to leave us sharing a double, I'd believe you.** _

_**Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:** _

_**(05:10) Aha! My cunning plan worked!** _

_**(05:11) Really though? Have you torn each other to pieces yet?** _

_**Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:** _

_**(05:11) No.** _

**_(05:11) Why are you so determined for us to get along? Surely there were cheaper ways than this anyway._ **

_**Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:** _

_**(05:12) Because every story needs an interesting beginning. You'll thank me in a few years.** _

Baze hesitates for a moment, looks towards Chirrut, and starts typing again.

**_Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:_ **

**_(05:12) Did you ever have anyone? Someone who enraged you and delighted you in equal measure?_ **

**_Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:_ **

**_(05:12) Yes. That's why I couldn't let the pair of you drift apart._ **

**_Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:_ **

**_(05:13)_ _Draxi, w_ _h_ _at happened?_ **

**_Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw]:_ **

**_(05:14) It's a long story with an unhappy ending. I'll tell you when you're old enough._ **

**_(05:14) Right, duty calls, little one. I'm leading morning prayers. Enjoy your lie-in. I hear this storm is going to take a couple of days to pass._ **

**_Malbus, Baze [7578302-gw]:_ **

**_(05:14) TWO DAYS????_ **

**_Damaris, Draxi [789764-gw] is OFFLINE. Messages sent now will be delivered when the connection is re-established._ **

Baze swears under his breath. Two days. _Two days._ It should be easy enough – he and Chirrut are getting on well now since whatever enmity there was between them has dissipated. It's the speed and ease with which they've established...whatever this is that's making Baze panic.

“I can hear you thinking,” comes Chirrut's voice from under the duvet. “Get up or come back to bed, you're so fucking _loud._ ”

“I haven't said a word!” Baze protests.

“When it comes to the Force, there's no difference between you and that racket outside. If you aren't coming back to bed, make me some tea.”

Baze ignores that request, and gets back under the covers, drawing them over his head. Chirrut has his eyes closed, and his hair, just past that phase where it's short enough to lay flat, is sticking up in every conceivable direction. Baze smiles. Chirrut reaches for his hand, and Baze lets him take it.

“Something's bothering you,” he says with a gentleness that's unlike him.

“I shouldn't be enjoying the company of someone I hated – and thought hated me – just a few weeks ago.”

Chirrut snorts. “You didn't really hate me, you just thought it was the right thing to do at the time.”

“That, believe it or not, makes absolutely no sense.”

Chirrut opens his eyes then, and it's as if he's looking at Baze, really looking. “You were confused. It happens. Better?”

Baze has heard that word, _confused._ He's heard it in the exact tone of voice that Chirrut just used too.

“Doesn't it bother you?” Baze asks.

Chirrut makes a noise through his teeth, and shifts closer to Baze under the covers. “You're talking yourself in circles,” he says. “Does what bother me?”

“That we're doing this wrong? Friendship. _Ugh-_ ” and Baze rubs his eyes. “Maybe I should go back to sleep.”

“If you found a credit on the street, would you pick it up?”

“What?”

“Just answer the question!”

“Well, yes. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes, I would. Well, if you can pick up a credit, spend it, and enjoy whatever that gets you without having earned it, then why not just enjoy this too? We've done nothing to warrant being friends, really. But we are now, and that's all that matters.”

“...that's an incredibly awful analogy.”

Chirrut grins, a big toothy thing that bares his gums too. “It makes sense though, doesn't it? I thought of it last night!” He squeezes Baze's hand. They're not that far apart now. Baze looks at Chirrut's mouth – and for once he's glad that he can't see what Baze is doing.

“Nothing makes sense to me anymore,” Baze says.

“And that bothers you too much,” says Chirrut. “Just come back to sleep, and we'll talk in the morning.”

“It is the morning, Chirrut.”

“Right. Let's go to sleep, and we'll talk this afternoon.” He must feel Baze tense up, because he starts running his thumb in gentle little circles across Baze's wrist. “You can ask me anything if you like, I'll give you my entire life story.”

“I bet that's quite a tale,” Baze says.

“Oh, you won't believe half of it.”

Baze smiles, and feels sleep tug at him. Maybe he will feel better after they talk. He already feels better with Chirrut's hand in his.

-

Shortly after waking that afternoon, they discover that their room has a bar. This news is met with a cheer by Chirrut – and he repeats that when Baze declares that they may as well help themselves, seeing as Draxi is settling the bill.

Which is how they find themselves sitting cross legged on the bed with a tray of drinks between them. Chirrut takes a swig of ksaa straight from the bottle, and winces. “Force, that's rough.”

Baze looks at the bottle of tihaar and before he knows it, he's uncorking it and taking a long chug. After just a few seconds, his mouth and throat feel like they're on fire. “They should use this to clean engines,” he coughs, pressing the bottle into Chirrut's hands.

“My papa used to say that,” Chirrut laughs.

“Used to?”

“He's dead,” says Chirrut bluntly. “My mother too.”

“How?”

“Speeder crash. I can thank that for _this_ too,” he says, gesturing at his eyes.

Baze thinks of the way he'd hurtled across the desert in that busted-up piece of metal, and covers his face. “Chirrut, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he says. “If I'd told you before you would have made us trek across that desert, and that would have been infinitely worse.”

“Do you miss them?” Baze asks.

“Oh, every day. Like you miss yours, I imagine.”

Baze stills. “You don't know anything about my parents,” he says.

Chirrut smiles sadly. “Yes, but I know you well enough now. You never talk about them, and you're the kind of person to just...bury things. If you don't talk about them, they won't hurt you.”

“If I'd have wanted a therapy session I would have gone to Elder Barak,” Baze says. Chirrut doesn't respond to that, clearly waiting for Baze to confirm that his character assessment was spot on. He takes a deep breath. “I never knew my father. My mother died when I was four, so she's just as much of a stranger to me as he was. I never really had a family, not until I came to the temple. My aunt looked after me, but I was always a burden. She moved to Corellia a while ago.”

“Do you still speak to her?”

Baze pulls a face. “She didn't even leave a note, or any way to contact her. So no.”

“Did you stay with friends? Or go straight to the temple?”

“Considering the closest thing I had to to a friend was the boy next door who used to beat me up every afternoon after school, the temple was a better option.” He takes a long swig from the bottle. “I didn't have a single friend when I was a child.” He laughs hollowly. “Entirely unloved.”

Chirrut whistles. “Drink more,” he says lowly. “I hate them,” he whispers when Baze has the bottle pressed to his lips. He's fiddling with his sleeves again.

“Hate who?” Baze asks.

“Everyone who's made you afraid.” He reaches for Baze, leaning over the tray between them. “I've never wanted to see your face more than I do right now.” He brings a hand to Baze's jaw.

“Trust me, you're not missing out on much.”

“Shhhh. Let me be the judge of that.” He maps out Baze's jaw, then his cheeks. He traces the tip of one finger down his nose, and even touches Baze's ears – the things that make him so self conscious. “Huh,” Chirrut says. “You're different to how I imagined you.”

“How did you picture me?” Baze asks. Chirrut's hand is back where it began, cupping Baze's jaw.

“Hard,” Chirrut says. “Stern. You're soft though. Gentle.”

Baze's heart is beating faster than it's ever done before. _Just do it_ , a voice in his head urges. He's not at a point where he thinks he can form words or even move. The moment is so perfect, it seems like Baze's entire body is loath to ruin it. Chirrut, thankfully, doesn't seem to be as affected.

“My parents were old by the time I was born. They'd given up hope of ever having a child. My mother thought I was a gift from the Force, and when I showed that I could feel it, wield it, well. She was certain then.” He is still touching Baze, but drops his hand from his jaw to his shoulder. “I kept dreaming of things that would come to pass. Most of the time it was something small – a smashed cooking pot, a thunderstorm. There was this one dream though, a recurring one.”

“Chirrut-”

“-and it was so frightening. I couldn't see a thing, and there was sand in my mouth, gunfire blaring in my ears. I was bleeding out, I could feel it – and _Force_ it hurt. There was this voice though, so gentle and sad.” He clears his throat before he goes on. “And although I was afraid, I was dying, I knew that it was nothing compared to what they were feeling. I told my mama, and do you know what she said? 'Chirrut, that's the person who's going to change your life.'”.

“Don't, please,” Baze says, because he has a feeling where this is going to go.

Chirrut ignores him. “When I met you for the first time, in the infirmary, I heard your voice and thought that I was going to faint. 'At last!' I thought. 'Here he is.' Except, well. You know what happened after that. A few weeks later, I went to speak to Draxi and I said: 'He hates me, the person I've been looking for since I was a child hates me.'” He takes in a long, shuddering breath, and Baze realises that he's crying.

Baze takes Chirrut's face in his hands, and brings their foreheads together. “I'm sorry,” he says. His mouth is so close to Chirrut's that he's breathing in the air he's letting out. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” They shouldn't have started drinking. They should never have come here in the first place.

“Just kiss me,” Chirrut whispers. “Kiss me before I go mad.”

Baze does. He pulls Chirrut in by the back of his neck, and presses their lips together. Chirrut's mouth opens under the pressure of his lips, and his tongue darts out and runs along Baze's lower lip. It takes a while for them to figure it out – Baze is tentative whereas Chirrut kisses like he's going to die if he doesn't. His mouth is warm and soft against Baze's though, and he makes these pleased little sounds, gasps that make the hair's on Baze's arms stand on end. That's all that matters really.

“Chirrut,” Baze says as they pull apart. Chirrut is smiling, and so is he. “Chirrut,” he says again. He wants to say his name over and over again, wants to murmur it against Chirrut's jawline, his neck, the jut of his hipbones, the softness of his thighs.

“I know,” Chirrut says, pulling Baze towards him again. “I know.”

-

Kissing, it turns out, does nothing for hunger. So Baze has to rummage through their supplies and try and come up with something for dinner. He passes Chirrut a packet that's got a picture of a smiling girl with pink hair on it. She's holding a fruit which Baze is pretty sure doesn't actually exist. “I don't even remember picking this up.”

Chirrut runs his fingers over it, looking for the little raised dots. “Ah! That's because you didn't. I took the liberty of slipping a few extra things into your basket.”

“What _is_ it?”

“Daelfruit syrup noodles.”

Baze snatches the packet off of him. “Right, that's going into the bin. You eat absolute garbage.” He sighs. “I just don't understand where you put it all!” he says, gesturing towards Chirrut's torso. He's perfectly streamlined, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist and a stomach that's, well, _flat._ Baze is strong, but soft. He curls in on himself a little at the thought.

“Stop that,” Chirrut says.

“I can't even have an internal crisis without you noticing,” Baze replies. He straightens up though, and reaches into his bag again. After a while, he finds some plain noodles, dried roots and something that _looks_ like it should be a sauce. He looks at the kettle. “I'm not a good cook,” he says, or rather, warns Chirrut.

“Fantastic,” Chirrut says. “Can't cook, can't drive. You can kiss though, so I'll let you off.”

Baze feels the blood rush to his cheeks, and looks away from Chirrut's mouth. He's found that his gaze keeps drifting back to it – and then his thoughts will rapidly derail too.

“I bet you're blushing,” Chirrut says.

“Shut up,” Baze laughs. “Or you're not getting any dinner.”

Dinner, it turns out, is edible. Just. They eat it in silence, propped up against the pillows. Chirrut brings his bowl up to his mouth and drains what's left. Baze watches the line of his throat, how it shifts and flexes as he swallows. Since Chirrut arrived at the temple, he's been trying _not_ to look at him. Being able to do so freely now is going to take some time to get used to, but it's nice.

“I'm going to take a shower” says Chirrut, and the words are loaded with something else entirely. For a moment, Baze thinks he's going to waggle his eyebrows and ask Baze to join him, just like in a terrible porn holo. He doesn't thought, just gets up, stretches, and walks to the fresher.

 _We're going to have sex,_ Baze thinks to himself. He mutters it under his breath, testing the thought, turning over the scenario on his tongue. He doesn't mind. He'd quite like to. He's wanted to all along, really.

When Chirrut is finished in the fresher, Baze locks himself in there. He turns the shower on – and it's a proper one, not a sonic. A true blessing of the Force. He lathers himself up with the shower gel that's provided, a thick, green substance that smells of heartweed. Baze wrinkles his nose. It'll do.

He stays in the shower for far longer than he needs really, but his heart is hammering in his chest, and Baze is going over every possible eventuality in his head. If _it_ goes spectacularly wrong, shuttle rides to the other side of the galaxy are pretty easy to come by. No need to panic. No need to panic at all.

When he finally exits the fresher, Chirrut is on the bed. He's wearing the tatty white vest he favours for sleeping in, and his grey regulation boxers. He looks like the most beautiful thing Baze has ever seen.

“Hello there,” he says, his face flushed. “I thought you'd left me, you were in there for so long.”

Baze laughs. “Where would I escape? Down the plughole?”

Chirrut smiles, and pulls Baze forward by the towel that's fastened around his waist. “Take this off,” he says softly. Baze doesn't say anything, doesn't move away. Chirrut takes this as permission enough, and pulls the towel down. “Lay on the bed,” he says. Baze has the urge to cover himself, even though Chirrut can't see him. He does as he's told though, and lays back on the bed. Chirrut pushes his thighs apart, and sits between them. Baze bites his lip at the sight.

Then Chirrut is leaning over Baze, and they're pressed flush right along the length of each other. Chirrut kisses down his jaw, then his neck. His hands are ghosting over Baze's stomach, and instinctively, Baze flinches away. “Shhh,” Chirrut says, his breath warming the skin at the crook of Baze's neck. “You're lovely. Just let me touch you.” He reaches down, and presses the heel of his hand to Baze's cock. Baze tilts his head back and moans. “Has anyone touched you like this?” Chirrut asks.

“What do you think?” Baze replies, his eyes pressed shut.

“I think that you think I'll be put off if you say no. When in fact-” and he kisses Baze's shoulder, “-I couldn't care less. I want to touch you, and I want you to like me touching you.” Baze opens his yes, and sees that Chirrut is smiling.

“You're going to kill me,” Baze says. Then Chirrut has a mouth on his nipple, and he's biting down and _oh_. He can't help the noise he makes.

Chirrut raises his head, a delighted expression on his face. “You like that,” he says.

“Yes,” Baze sighs. He's not sure he's capable of saying anything else

“Do you want my mouth?” says Chirrut, his chin now resting on Baze's stomach. Baze hadn't even noticed him move. It takes a moment for Baze to realise what he means, and when he does he's curling his thighs around Chirrut's torso and tilting his hips upwards.

“Please,” he says, the word leaving him in a rush.

Chirrut breathes out against Baze's stomach, and kisses him just below his navel. Then he's shuffling down the bed, down, down and d-

Whatever Baze had imagined having his cock sucked would feel like, it's nothing compared to the reality. Chirrut's mouth is tight and warm and Baze is sure that if he looks down, he's going to come embarrassingly quickly. So he looks up at the ceiling, moving his hips up and down, up and down. Chirrut hums when Baze thrusts up into his mouth a little, and that feels _incredible._ So he does it again, and then Chirrut is swallowing him down completely.

Baze has to look. He'll die if he doesn't.

The sight that greets him is one he's never going to forget. Chirrut has Baze's entire cock in his mouth, just holding it there. His eyelashes fan out against his cheeks, and Baze reaches down to trace Chirrut's lips, to feel how they're stretched around him. Chirrut starts to move his mouth up and down when he does, and Baze moves his hand to Chirrut's cheek. He can _feel_ his cock in Chirrut's mouth, from outside and in. Chirrut keeps up a relentless pace, and when he's got just the tip of Baze's cock in his mouth, licks slowly along the slit. Baze shudders. He's not going to last very long at all.

“Chirrut,” he gasps. “I'm going to come.” There's that familiar feeling building low in him and that urge to push his hips up into the soft, wet heat of Chirrut's mouth is too much to bear. Chirrut reaches up to hold Baze's hand, and grips it tight as Baze fucks Chirrut's mouth. He feels hot all over, wound too tight. Just one more second, one more, one more – _oh._

“Fuck,” he moans, his orgasm rushing through him, over him. He resists the urge to close his eyes, and watches Chirrut swallow, his hand working Baze through it. The sight makes Baze's cock throb, and the feeling is so strong it's almost painful. He cries out, grabbing Chirrut's hair, and thrusts desperately into his mouth, never wanting the feeling to end. Chirrut doesn't even choke, just takes Baze's cock like he was born for it.

When it's over, Baze lets his head fall back against the pillow, and takes in a great, gasping lungful of air. Chirrut moves his mouth slowly back up the length of Baze's softening cock, and presses a kiss to the tip.

“Where on Jedha did you learn how to do that?” Baze asks, his entire body lax.

Chirrut straddles Baze's thighs, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. The sight of him like this: lips puffy, cheeks pink, and entirely self-satisfied, makes Baze's spent cock twitch. He wonders how quickly he can get hard again.

Chirrut smilies. “I'm very resourceful,” he says, and Force, his voice is ruined. That lilting, sing-song quality has been replaced by something deeper, huskier. Baze pulls Chirrut down on top of him, and kisses him. Chirrut licks into his mouth, and the thought that barely five minutes ago he was sucking Baze's cock with that wicked mouth makes Baze feel dizzy.

“I want to make you come,” he whispers against Chirrut's mouth. He's never said anything like it in his life, but judging by the way Chirrut moans and tugs on Baze's hair, he's doing something right.

“Yeah,” says Chirrut, and his grinds his hips down against Baze's. He's sensitive still, and he gasps. Chirrut keeps doing it, working his hips in circles, pressing Baze back into the mattress. “I've wanted to fuck you since the day you sparred with me.” Their position now is exactly the opposite of that – Chirrut has the upper hand now, Baze's body trapped beneath his.

“Tell me what to do,” he says. “Show me, you know I've never-”

Chirrut leans back in for a kiss, and bites his lip. “I've got you,” he says when he pulls back. “I'll teach you.” It's the most sincere Chirrut's ever sounded, and Baze feels something warm and lovely bloom in his chest. “I'm not going to fuck you tonight though,” he says, reaching for Baze's hand. He sits back up, and brings Baze's hand to his mouth – and then, honest to all that is holy, sucks on his index finger. Baze feels like he's going to pass out at the sight. Chirrut slides it past his lips and then back off with a _pop!_ “I want your fingers in me,” he says.

Baze knows that whatever happens, he's going to remember that for the rest of his life: the way Chirrut says it, all low and breathy. “Yes,” he says, “I want that too.”

“Come on then, swap places with me,” Chirrut says. He slaps Baze's thigh to urge him up, and slowly, despite every muscle in his body still not quite recovered from what's happened, he comes to sit in front of Chirrut, who's sitting upright against the headboard. Chirrut pulls off his vest, throwing it across the room. Baze then reaches for Chirrut's underwear, and tugs at the waistband. Chirrut raises his hips, and then he's bared to Baze. He's beautiful, his hard cock sitting up against his belly, his strong thighs spread.

“How did I end up here?” he says, and his voice is fond even to his own ears. Chirrut smiles, no, grins.

“Come on,” he says, “Let me show you what I like.” Baze can think of nothing he'd like to find out more. “In my bag, there's some lube, it's a little bottle, just-”

“Do you make a habit of carrying that around with you?” Baze interrupts.

“No,” Chirrut says, his mouth curling up into a sly smile. “But I knew that I might need to keep myself occupied on this trip.” Baze's brain promptly short circuits at the thought of Chirrut fingering himself, biting down on his lip to stop Baze from hearing. He's pretty sure that he's never moved so quickly in his life as he does to get the bottle of lubricant from Chirrut's bag.

“I'm equipped,” he says, which makes Chirrut let out a short, loud laugh. Baze leans to kiss the soft skin just above Chirrut's knee, and inhales the scent of his skin. “You're the worst teacher in the world,” he says, which makes Chirrut laugh even more.

“Baze,” he says. “This part is pretty self explanatory. Just...use plenty of that stuff.” His cheeks flush pink. “It's been a while, that's all.”

Baze squeezes the lube out onto his finger, and while he's doing that, Chirrut bundles up the sheets and a pillow under his hips so he's raised off the bed. Baze reaches down between Chirrut's legs, past his cock, and presses his finger to Chirrut's hole. Chirrut sighs. “Yes.” He bites his lip and Baze presses forward, more carefully than he's ever done anything in his life. When he's got his finger fully inside Chirrut, he can feel his heartbeat pulsing around it. He wonders what Chirrut, the warm, soft heat of him, would feel like around his cock.

Baze isn't _quite_ sure what Chirrut wants him to do with his finger, so he starts to move it. The motion that comes naturally is curling his finger upwards, which he does a couple of times before Chirrut gasps. “There!” he says, his voice urgent. “Right there, right there.” Baze keeps curling his finger and pressing it up, which Chirrut seems to like. He's breathing heavily, his mouth open, and his cock is weeping. “Another finger,” he says. “Come _on,_ ” he urges, and makes a wrecked little noise when Baze pulls his finger out.

Chirrut is so desperate, so ready, that when Baze presses two fingers into him, he takes them without any protest. In fact, he tries to fuck himself down on them straight away, dying to have them back where he needs them. Baze does what he did before, curling and pressing, until Chirrut shouts and grips the sheets, head thrown back. “Do you ever do this to yourself?” he asks after a moment, his words breathy.

“No,” Baze says. “I've never tried.”

“I'm going to make you come on my fingers,” Chirrut says, and the thought of that makes them both moan. “I'm going to make you come so well you won't even need a hand on your cock.” Baze presses his fingers up hard, keeping the pressure unrelenting. Chirrut wails, and brings a hand to his cock. “You're so good,” he says, stroking himself in time with the motion of Baze's fingers. “You're doing so well.” He laughs, a beautiful, shuddering thing.

“Come Chirrut, I want to see you.” Chirrut's tightening around his fingers now, and his hips are moving erratically, thrusting up into his grip. Baze's hand is killing him, but he keeps his fingers moving for a minute longer, just so he can watch Chirrut go still and cry out once, spilling over his hand. Baze fingers him through it, pressing his fingers up against that spot over and over again.

Chirrut's head hits the headboard and his whole body arches up for a moment, wringing every last piece of pleasure it can from the press of Baze's fingers. Then it's over, and Chirrut's saying “stop, stop, it's too much.” Baze draws his fingers out gently, and then for a moment, there is silence. “You're a quick learner,” Chirrut then says, bringing a hand to wipe at his forehead.

“That good, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chirrut says, his voice slow and deep. Baze swears he can feel it rake over him, drawing every hair upright. His cock is valiantly trying to get hard again, but Baze ignores it. He's not sure if he can even move, let alone come again.

“I'm going to clean myself up,” Chirrut says. “Then you're going to pour us both a drink, and then we're going to sleep for a thousand years.” He's not making any attempt to move just yet though.

“Sounds good to me,” Baze says. He lowers his head to Chirrut's thigh, and lets him run a hand through his hair.

-

Two days later, Baze wakes to sunlight streaming in through the window. Chirrut is asleep, his head on Baze's chest and an arm slung over his stomach. Baze gently shakes him awake. “Chirrut, the storm's over.”

Chirrut yawns, and hooks his leg over Baze. He mouths at Baze's throat, and Baze thinks of how last night, he'd come riding Baze's cock, gasping Baze's name into the crook of his neck. “I suppose that means we're heading home then,” he says, voice slow and sleep-soft.

Baze thinks of the temple courtyard, of Chirrut stretching in the morning sun. He thinks of their shared room, with the beds that could be pushed together – if Chirrut would like that. Baze thinks that he would. The tiny gap between their beds would be unbearable after three days of this. “Yeah,” he says against Chirrut's hair. “Home.”

-

The days pass a little like this now: Baze wakes early, and so does Chirrut. They pray together as the sun rises, sometimes whispering the words against sweat-slick skin, sometimes silently, sometimes laughing, but always together.

Chirrut is impossible still, a devotee of his own wilfulness to ignore every order put to him. One night, he presses a kyber shard into Baze's hand, one that he's stolen from the vast caverns below the temple. “We won't be young forever you know,” he says as Baze protests. “You've got to have something to remember these days by.”

Every day that Chirrut spends with Baze is impossible to forget, so it's hard to visualise that particular scenario that Chirrut puts to him. Baze takes the crystal though, and wears it on a chain around his wrist, a piece of red cloth tied over it to hide it from prying eyes. “I'll have to steal you something in return,” he tells Chirrut.

“The day I see _you_ turn to crime Baze, that's when this whole order falls and we're scattered into a million pieces across the galaxy.”

 _I'd still find you again,_ Baze vows to himself. _I'd die trying coming back to you._

Sometimes Chirrut will sit in silence after a dream, and refuse to let Baze comfort him. He knows that Chirrut has visions, a knack for prophecy. When Chirrut won't tell him what he's just dreamt of, that's when Baze worries. Chirrut is always happy again soon enough though, eternally mercurial. So Baze leaves him be, content to be the one steady presence in his life.

So time marches on. The winter, a long one, passes. When people are looking for Baze, they ask Chirrut – and when people are looking for Chirrut, Baze is normally searching with them.

Chirrut still fights, but Baze notices that he picks righteous causes. He'll beat a thief into the ground who is trying to take off with an old lady's purse, or take on some sympathisers of a cause he deems unsavoury. In a tradition as tried, tested and perfected as the turn of Jedha on its axis, Chirrut nearly always comes away with an injury. Baze loses count of the amount of gashes he stitches, split lips he cleans and on one memorable occasion, a broken arm he has to help re-set.

Chirrut heals gladly under Baze's hands, relishes in the way Baze's rough, calloused fingers can treat him so gently. Baze suspects that he may pretend to be more hurt than he is sometimes, if it will get him Baze's undivided attention for an hour or two. Baze starts to follow Chirrut when he suspects he's about to go on a rampage. The Force may be on Chirrut's side most days, but Baze is something to be reckoned with too.

When Baze is sitting in the courtyard one afternoon, Chirrut at his side, he realises that he's happy. It's such an alien concept to him – he truly doesn't think that he's felt it before. He laughs to himself, unable to keep all this sudden joy from brimming over.

“What's got you smiling?” asks Chirrut. Overhead, a bird squawks, followed by another. Summer is on its way. It's almost a year since Chirrut arrived.

“You've been here for a while now,” Baze says. “I think I'm just starting to get used to you.”

Chirrut laughs, loud and clear.

“Oh, but we've got a long road ahead.”

“Yeah?”

Chirrut reaches for Baze's hand. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

“Is this something that you've seen in your dreams?” Baze asks. The courtyard is going to be full of people soon, but for now it's just him and Chirrut.

“No,” says Chirrut. “But I can feel it. I just _know_. That's usually a lot more reliable, isn't it? What your heart tells you?”

Baze smiles. “Yeah,” he replies. “It is.” The bell rings for morning prayers, and people start to spill out into the courtyard. Baze spies Draxi looking at them. She's leaning against a pillar, arms folded. When she sees Baze looking, she raises a hand in greeting. She looks extraordinarily pleased with herself.

“So,” Chirrut says, standing up. “Another day.” The courtyard is noisy now, everyone taking their place. Chirrut's voice is louder and clearer than everything else though, and when he moves in front of Baze, he's standing directly in front of the sun. The light looks like it's shining from him, and Baze knows that's how Chirrut sees him through the Force. Just light. Just _love._

Baze smiles. “Another day,” he repeats, and reaches for Chirrut's hand. He stands, and Chirrut kisses him then, cradling Baze's jaw in his hands. He smiles when he pulls away, and brings a hand up to ruffle Baze's hair. It's getting long now.

“And plenty more days to come,” Chirrut whispers.

 _Life,_ Baze thinks to himself, _has come good at last._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to drink an entire bottle of wine and not think about star wars for five minutes now. thanks for reading!


End file.
